of
novels written about us by 'foreigners' who, starting with the
Mudie-convention and a general sense that we are picturesque, write
commentaries upon what is a sealed book and deal out judgments which are
not only wrong, but wrong with a thoroughness only possible to entire
self-complacency.

And yet . . . It seems to a Cornishman so easy to get at Cornish hearts--
so easy even for a stranger if he will approach them, as they will at once
respond, with that modesty which is the first secret of fine manners.
Some years ago I was privileged to edit a periodical--though short-lived
not wholly unsuccessful--the _Cornish Magazine_. At the end of each
number we printed a page of 'Cornish Diamonds,' as we called them--scraps
of humour picked up here and there in the Duchy by Cornish correspondents;
and in almost all of them the Cornishman was found gently laughing at
himself; in not one of them (so far as I remember) at the stranger.
Over and over again the jest depended on our small difficulties in making
our own distinctions of thought understood in English. Here are a few
examples:--

(1) "Please God," said Aunt Mary Bunny, "if I live till this evenin'
and all's well I'll send for the doctor."

(2) "I don't name no names," said Uncle Billy "but Jack Tremenheere's
the man."

(3) "I shan't go there nor nowhere else," said old Jane Caddy,
"I shall go 'long up Redruth."

(4) "I thought 'twere she, an' she thought 'twere I," said Gracey
Temby, "but when we come close 'twadn't narry wan o' us."

(5) A crowd stood on the cliff watching a stranded vessel and the
lifeboat going out to her.
"What vessel is it?" asked a late arrival.
"The _Dennis Lane_."
"How many be they aboord?"
"Aw, love and bless 'ee, there's three poor dear sawls and wan old
Irishman."

(6) Complainant (cross-examining defendant's witness): "What colour
was the horse?"
"Black."
"Well, I'm not allowed to contradict you, and I wouldn' for worlds:
but I say he wasn't."

(7) A covey of partridges rose out of shot, flew over the hedge, and was
lost to view. "Where do you think they've gone?" said the sportsman
to his keeper. "There's a man digging potatoes in the next field.
Ask if he saw them."
"Aw, that's old Sam Petherick: he hasna seed 'em, he's hard o'
hearin'."

(8) _Schoolmaster_: "I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Minards, that your son